


Hannibal Rewatch Drabbles

by mokuyoubi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gap Filler, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Masturbation, OFC - Freeform, OMC - Freeform, Pre-Relationship, Will's thirsty students, professor graham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 14:05:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6379039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the label! Each week I'll be writing at least 1 100 word drabble for the episode featured in that week's rewatch. For now it's pre-hannigram, but that will change as the series progresses, and the tags will def. evolve was well.</p><p>If there's any scene from the show in particular you'd like to see explored more in depth, or any gaps between scenes you'd like written, feel free to drop a comment and I'll see if I can make it work!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Apéritif

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of drabble prompts for this episode, so I did multiple 100 word drabbles, and one 300 word drabble (I know, I'm a cheater)

“Wonder if he’d want me to call him ‘professor’ in bed,” Marcus mused.

Sean hummed. “I’ll call him whatever he wants if he keeps those glasses on during sex.”

Angela tilted her head to appreciate that firm ass when Professor Graham bent to rifle through his bag. “I’m gonna ask him about the paper.”

Sean gave her an impressed look. “Girl, own it.”

A big bear of a Special Agent strode in, bogarting that precious little post-class window of time before Professor Graham inevitably scurried off. He had the audacity to straighten Graham’s glasses. 

The three sighed in disappointed unison.

*

Will took a sip of whisky and it burned down his throat. Head hung back, the quiet dark closed in around him. It chipped away the patina of sadness left over from the day.

He rubbed himself to hardness through his jeans, taking his time. There was already dampness staining his underwear when he reached inside, grabbing his dick. Eyes shut tight, he fucked into the tight grip, focusing on the musky smell of the land, the dogs, and his own precum running over his fist. 

Will’s orgasm came hard and fast, as always, and his mind was blessedly blank.

*

The man in Jack’s office was a psychiatrist, it was plain to see. Dressed fashionably, but unassumingly, cuts and materials that spoke of wealth. Posture relaxed and unthreatening, presenting openness and welcoming. Handsome face a bland, polite mask behind which lay a mind ever observing, analysing, and drawing specious conclusions.

There was no point in Will’s presence if Jack had Lecter to work on the profile. He fidgeted, checked his watch counting down. 10 minutes until he could escape, using class as his excuse. Mindful of the doctor tracking his movements, he scowled and shoved his hands in his pockets.

*

Hannibal takes great pride in the minds he’s cultivated over the years. Misguided souls struggling against their own nature. Time, patience, and careful manipulation have brought about their becoming. There were failures, but then, one can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs.

There was never any grand scheme, but now it seems as though all his efforts have l to led this moment. He has perfected his art through trial and error, and has been presented with this most exquisite canvas on which to work.

Mindful to leave the phone just as he found it, Hannibal follows Will outside.

*

Pam wasn’t paid enough to deal with this. Sure, those guys had been stupidly good-looking, but clearly weirdos. Or gay. 

“Look, they made a mess of the files, and I’m no maid.”

“Didja make sure the warrant was legit?” Terry asked. “They coulda just printed it from the interwebs.”

Pam gawped. “It’s not my job to scrutinise legal documents!”

A news bulletin flashed on the television. With a sinking feeling, Pam read the name Hobbs scrolling across the ticker. This day was just getting better and better. She massaged her temple and reached for the flask in her second drawer.

 

*

Lecter stirred, fingers twitching first, eyes fluttering behind his lids. Will took in the blood on his clothing, the sweep of hair across his forehead, the lines telling of age--more noticeable in this light--and wondered if perhaps he’d underestimated the man.

“Have you been here long?” Lecter asked, before he’d opened his eyes. His accent was thick with sleep.

“‘Bout a half-hour,” Will answered. “That chair doesn’t look like very comfortable for sleeping in.”

Lecter opened his eyes and cracked a warm smile. “I’ve slept in worse.”

“She likely won’t wake tonight,” Will said, looking away. “You could go back to the hotel. Hell, fly home, sleep in your own bed.”

“I could say the same to you,” Lecter murmured.

Will shook his head. They lapsed into silence. “She’s safe now,” he said, some time later.

“You don’t sound so certain of that.”

Will glared in his direction. The silence that fell this time was tense. Will hunkered down in his chair, arms crossed, fixing his attention on Abigail. He feigned inattention when Lecter stood and left the room, though they both knew Lecter didn’t buy it.

His return was heralded by the scent of cheaply made coffee. He stood by Will’s shoulder, proffering a cup. Will took it with a grunt of thanks, sipped too quickly, burnt his tongue. Lecter retook his seat, blowing over the surface of his coffee, lips pursed. Will found himself staring. He looked away before Lecter could notice.

“It it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll stay a while longer,” Lecter said.

Will shrugged, non-committal. Truth be told, he thought he wouldn’t mind the company, though he’d keep that startling revelation to himself. “She’s lucky you were with me,” he said instead. “I’m sure she’ll want to thank you when she wakes.”


	2. Amuse-Bouche

Today was the day. Jess had been building up courage for weeks; she just need a conversation starter. It was wildly inappropriate, the way everyone applauded. She could tell Professor Graham thought so, too. 

Jess lingered deskside as he stuffed his papers into his bag, waiting for acknowledgement. She sighed; she might as well have been invisible for all the attention he paid.

Angela came up, bumping her shoulder in commiseration. They both eyed the pretty woman currently chatting up Graham, making him smile. It lit up his whole face.

“At least we know he swings both ways,” Angela said.

*

Even before the session began, it was apparent that Will was present only out of obligation. That would not do. This could only work if Will were not only a willing, but eager, participant.

“I have some notes to finish,” Hannibal said, waving Will inside. “Feel free to take a look around.”

Put him at ease, make the office his safe space, offer the opportunity of retreat as necessary.

Predictably, Will made straight for the ladder.

A smile tugged at Hannibal’s lips, and he turned back to his desk. Nothing compared to the satisfaction of everything going exactly to plan.

*

The dark jewel tones leant a feeling of cosiness to the room. Neutral palette and natural woods gave the impression of warmth and softness. Among the expensive artwork and trinkets was the odd potted plant--growth, renewal, life.

It wasn’t that Will wasn’t aware of these subtle techniques used in therapist’s offices to put patients at ease. What was surprising was the fact it was working.

Perusing the books lining Doctor Lecter’s wall, listening to the gentle scrape of ball point pen on paper--no intrusive computer in this office, Will began to feel his resistance give way to an unexpected calm.

*

“Damnit!” 

Intrigued by the vibrant fall of red curls and the expanse of creamy white thigh exposed in the action of bending over her engine, Brian headed her way. “Something I can help with?”

“I’ve already called triple A for a tow. But…” She looked at him from under her lashes and gave him a playful, disingenuous smile. “I could use a ride back to my hotel room.”

Brian glanced over the engine, saw the loose hose. It was clear she’d done it herself. 

Still, life was short, this case was fucked, and she was hot. Why the hell not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, if you have scenes you'd like to see from Potage, let me know in the comments or on my tumblr: http://moku-youbi.tumblr.com/


	3. Potage

“Oh my god, check out the Silver Fox over there with Big Papa Bear,” Sean hissed. Three heads whipped in the direction of the entrance.

There was Agent Crawford, and with him a greying gentleman, trim and fit in his tailored suit. Cheekbones to fucking die for and lips you could nibble on for hours. Where Crawford watched Graham like a hawk with its prey, Foxy’s interests were obviously far more prurient.

“Eh, he looks like a weirdo,” Jess muttered.

“There’s no accounting for taste,” Angela said, licking her lips. “I’d be the filling on that sandwich in a heartbeat.”

*

_Ugliest thing in the world_ , Will said. Hannibal knew better. He’d all but admitted as much in their sessions. Still, it was fascinating to watch as Will slipped on affectations like a disguise becoming the man who said the things Abigail Hobbs needed to hear.

Will could only lie to himself for so long before he would be forced to acknowledge the truth of his being.

Already it was peeking out from between stress fractures to snarl at Freddie Lounds. Hannibal doubted either of them fully appreciated the threat behind his words yet. 

Hannibal couldn’t be more pleased.

*

Will sees a victim too fragile to face the intrusive outside world.

Jack sees Hobb’s conspirator, conniving and manipulative.

Alana sees a traumatised teenage girl, but above all a survivor.

Hannibal sees all her complexity coalescing to create the whole creature that is Abigail Hobbs. Myriad conflicting emotions and motivations that have brought her to this point. She will not only persevere, but rise victorious.

He feels a certain kinship toward her, orphaned by violence. For that reason alone he’s inclined to become her accomplice. That earning her trust will foster Will’s own in him is merely a fringe benefit.

*

 _We don’t have to do this. If you’re not ready_... all solicitous desperate practically screaming trust me like me without knowing who she is or even caring beyond what she represents to him

 _What is it you’re hoping to achieve with this visit?_ meaningless platitudes and self-important psycho-babble bullshit thinking she’s got Abigail all figured out

 _You must prepare yourself for whatever we may find_ with that disingenuous concern can’t anyone else see it and it’s like _yeah thanks not buying what you’re selling but your voice is all i hear in my nightmares before everything goes straight to hell_

*

snatches of phrases filtering through but as far as her memory goes it’s been a couple of days since they were a whole family here

no denying he did it or the part she played

dad’s fingers in her hair when she was little how soft it was like spun silk let him sleep in it bury him there

clutching the pillow tight to hold in the keens of betrayal _what did you bring down on us dad what traces of those girls have you left behind what will they find that will lead them straight to me_


	4. Œuf

It’s no wonder Will never looks others in the eye. It isn’t what he fears lies within their minds--it’s what he fears they’ll see lacking in his own. The horror is feigned; the expression of remorse is nearly perfect, but his eyes tell the truth.They betray his insincerity. 

Will is a master student of human nature. Knows what he should be feeling in any particular instance, how to mimic it. But slowly, the desire to do so is slipping.

He meets Hannibal’s gaze, daring him to see what lurks beyond. He expects horror, but all he inspires is awe.

 

*

Rebecca Graham, née Collins, left her first family to start a second in 1985. Childhood amnesia only excuses so much of Will’s inability to remember his mother; he would have been six at the time. Trauma explains the rest.

Research turns up a trail of police reports for domestic disturbances and hospital visits, calls to CPS. These are the sort of things Will could easily get his hands on, if he wanted. Perhaps his memory has served him just well enough to deter further investigation. 

It is easier to dismiss a mother he never knew than one who abandoned him.

 

*

There is purpose in everything Will does, knowingly or unconsciously. Here is a man used to having the impulses and desires of others constantly thrust upon him. Always second-guessing himself: do I want this thing because X wants it?

Hannibal’s greatest desire is that Will know himself, truly and wholly. That is why it is of particular interest how Will behaves in _this_ space, free of outside influence. 

The way Will strides in, taking up space, handling Hannibal’s belongings, is dramatically different from the first time Will stepped inside his office. Skeptical. Wary. Hands in pockets, carefully skirting the obstacles in the room so as not to brush against them.

Now bag and jacket tossed carelessly aside, prowling through the Hannibal’s space, standing while Hannibal sits. Fidgeting, needing something for his hands to do other than clenching them uselessly at his sides. Touching Hannibal’s things so casually. 

There is more in his movements than the ease of familiarity. More than dominance or frustration or aggression, it is possession. Towards this space, towards Hannibal, and all that the two of them have come to mean to Will.

Rather than bristling, the thing in Hannibal’s chest sings at the notion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like I was beating a dead horse with the student thing, though it would have been fun to pick apart what they thought of Will discussing suck bruises and bites, ha!


	5. Coquilles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alllllll the hannigram this week...

_I shouldn’t have come here_. Will thought it the entire drive, sitting with the car idling at the curb, standing on Doctor Lecter’s porch with his hand poised to knock. He’s frozen there in the silence following the echoing rap, taken with the desire to run and hide, especially once he hears the first stirrings of life within. Footsteps down ancient creaking stairs, the lock sliding back.

Lecter opens the door. His hair tousled, eyes soft from sleep and his carefully blank features melt into a smile at seeing Will. Something in Will still slumbering startles awake at the sight.

*

Hannibal had lain abed with his book some time after waking, and was cautiously intrigued by the knock. It wouldn’t be the first time a patient had tracked him down at home. It’s the first time he’s welcomed such an intrusion on his privacy, certainly.

There’s more going on inside that delightful mind than even Hannibal anticipated. More than his guilt-fuelled hallucinations--or would they be better termed fantasies? More than his sublimated desires taking the form of his nightmares, his unconscious body in flight.

“You were right to come here,” he says, hand on Will’s shoulder, he draws him in.

*

Doctor Lecter’s words rattle around in his head long after they’ve parted. For hours and days their discussions replay, allowing Will to pick apart all the layers and innuendo. Until he can make sense of whatever he’s working through, whether the current case or something more personal.

This time it’s insistent. Telling him it’s Jack’s fault he’s falling apart. It’s only going to get worse. Jack doesn’t even care, as long as Will keeps performing his little trick.

The thoughts aren’t his own, but they speak with his voice, bitter and jagged, spitting poison, until they’re all he can hear.

*

Just standing near Will he catches the first whiff. Barely discernable under his cologne--sweat, yes, sour from stress and fear--but beneath the muskiness there’s a sweet note, like freshly baked bread. 

Fever itself is unsurprising, but the particular bouquet is strange. He can’t help but dip his head and breath more deeply. Faint, acrid burn of ammonia stinging his throat, stale beer on his tongue, the tang of salt.

Fumbling through his excuses, he can only stare at Will with growing wonder and, most unsettlingly, concern. Unexpected. Before his very eyes, the shape of this design changes, and it’s fascinating.

 

*

Will can feel the closeness of their bodies, the subtle shifting of the air around them when Hannibal leans in. He holds his breath in anticipation, waiting for whatever comes next. In the silence he hears Hannibal’s sharp inhale and Will’s heart races at the implication.

He is all coy playfulness in his questioning, but of course Hannibal doesn’t take it that way. Will’s never quite gotten the hang of flirting; this is clearly no exception. Though perhaps it’s for the best, when Lecter off-handedly disparages his cologne. Will swallows his disappointment and covers for it with an uncomfortable chuckle.


	6. Entrée

Jack might have taken his words for a joke, but Will had to swallow back very real apprehension as they approached the entrance of the mental hospital. Anxiety soured in his stomach and clawed bitter up the back of his throat. Cold sweat sprung up along his hairline.

Even before his name was being bandied about in Frederick Chilton’s circle, Will felt... uneasy in the presence of psychiatrists. 

It began in his youth as mistrust of their interest and motivation--a middle school guidance counselor in Michigan, hand soft on Will’s shoulder, asking how does it feel to always be the new kid? That was a trap. One misstep and a call placed to CPS, and would end Will in foster care, like that was somehow better?

That bloomed into full-blown, aggressive paranoia in his late teens when he began to comprehend just how differently his mind worked from everyone else. The things he saw when he watched the news or read an article; the flashes of insight when he bothered to look into the faces of his peers; the truly sickening thoughts that sprung to his mind where others shied away in horror.

When he submitted to the necessary psych profile for joining the police force, Will finally realised the true danger they presented. The hawkish gaze of the woman administering the test, studying him with fierce intensity when he spoke, and even more unnervingly, when he didn’t.

At last, he fully understood it wasn’t about helping _him_. He was nothing but a stepping stone in the advancement of their own careers--no matter the consequences. Whether they “fixed” him, and were able to add that feather to their cap, or if he was relegated to padded cell while they went on tour with their best-selling novel about his tortured mind.

*

Waiting on their scheduled meetings isn’t usually a hardship. Between working cases together and dinner invitations, Will sees Hannibal on a more regular basis anyway. But for whatever reason--Alana consulting on Gideon or Jack’s preoccupation with Miriam Lass--Will hasn’t seen him all week, and as soon as he realises it, he feels the vacancy of the doctor’s presence very profoundly.

Visions of Gideon’s crime loom fever bright in Will’s mind. How it felt to kill that woman--joy, lust, rage and more, tangled beyond all hope of recognition. 

Another 36 hours until their appointment. It’s too long. Maybe Will should call…

*

Her detractors call her soulless; it’s not a label Freddie cares to discourage. So law enforcement and so-called legitimate news outlets demonise her? It’s not going to stop her digging deep for the stories that no one else has the stomach for, watching the ticker on her blog climbing higher every day and the ad-revenue roll in.

They think they’re doing her favour, letting her in to interview Gideon, but she also doesn’t mind being underestimated. Just like she knows what’s lurking behind Will Graham’s shifty little eyes, she’ll get to the truth of the matter far before the FBI.

*

Everything must be perfect when Kathy’s parents come for the holidays. China and crystal, silver polished to a shine--oh and best hide those mostly empty bottles! Martha Stewart centerpiece of chrysanthemums in autumnal colours arranged artfully in a pumpkin shell. Abel has to admit, the gold and orange blooms are striking spattered with rust red of dried bloodspray.

They’ll want to know why. As Abel chews his turkey, blood-stained carving knife at his elbow, he considers the question, and smiles. There was no snapping point, no last straw. They can’t find a motive where there isn’t one to be found.

*

Miriam Lass, in and of herself, is easily disposable. Clever for a mere trainee--hunting him down in a matter of days where full-fledged agents failed for years--ambitious, resourceful. Maybe in another life she could have been something special. In her current form, she’s of little interest to Hannibal.

No, Miriam qua Miriam isn’t a particularly compelling specimen. It’s her _potential_ that intrigues him. No longer as the someday-foe, but for how she can be used against those who set her upon him. Likely as he is to eventually cross paths with this Agent Crawford, Miriam could be a valuable tool.


	7. Sorbet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to b_minako (among others) for the request of the ambulance scene--it was very difficult to condense into drabble form.
> 
> As before, please drop any prompts you have for upcoming episodes here or on my blog. I could use the inspiration, tbh!

Franklyn’s positive they’d be best friends. Doctor Lecter has seen the very worst of him, fumbling insecurities and social anxieties, but they have so much in common! More than taste for fine dining and fine clothing, opera, the familiar books lining Lecter’s bookshelves.

Beyond his neediness and glaring faults, Franklyn is smart, funny, and loyal to a fault. He just needs to show himself to proper advantage. It’s why he brings Tobias--bright, clever, handsome. A glittering jewel at his side to catch Lecter’s eye. 

Only, Tobias keeps flicking his gaze in the Doctor’s direction. Perhaps Franklyn’s plan worked too well... 

*

Hannibal cares for all his patients, in his own way. There are those in which he fosters their darker impulses, and those for whom he hastens along their self-destructive tendencies. There are those who spark, if not sympathy, then perhaps charitable mercy.

Franklyn falls within that category--not as hopeless as he would paint himself to be. A success story for a patient every now and then allows the others to slip unnoticed through the cracks.

So he indulges the man, careful not to watch the clock as the minutes tick away, bringing him ever closer to 7pm, and Will Graham.

*

Immediately, endless hours of experience in the ER, then the surgical theatre take over. How strange after all these years, to be saving a life again, instead of taking one.

Absently, _carelessly_ , Hannibal lifts his head and his eyes meet Will’s. In that instant, there is something close to recognition on Will’s face. Never has Hannibal been subject to that finely honed gaze. Suddenly he has an inkling of what it would mean to be seen by Will. To lift that veil.

It is too soon, and though it tears at him like a physical wound, Hannibal averts his gaze.

 

*

Usually Will reconstructs scenes long after they’re finished. It’s incredibly rare for him to stumble upon a crime in action. That’s the only reason he can think, for the way things play out before his eyes, confused images overlaying one atop the other.

Silvestri and Hannibal moving in tandem. Hands quick and sure, or panicked and fumbling? One to repair the damage done, the other to kill? It makes no sense--neither of them operating with the murderous intent he sees. Both working to save a life, not take one. 

It persists and Will is drawn in, almost hypnotised. He’s reminded of those 3D puzzles so popular in his teens. The dizzying patterns that made his eyes swim, until he shifted his perspective and everything slid into place.

Hannibal meets his gaze, and for a moment Will nearly achieves perfect clarity. Realisation pricks at the back of his neck, threatening to crest cold through his blood. Then Hannibal’s attention returns to his task, and as quickly as the puzzle began to assemble, it shatters again, the pieces scattering beyond his reach. 

Yet the images hang there even after Will closes his eyes, fists digging into the socket to drive them away.

*

Will’s never been much for drinking wine. Pops had a live-in girlfriend for a while who favoured boxes of Chablis and would pour Will a glass from time to time. It was sweet on his unsophisticated teenaged palate. Not bad, but there were quicker ways for getting drunk, and he liked the burn that accompanied hard liquor.

Perusing the aisles of wine shop, he feels woefully out of his depth. No amount of researching has done any good-- _go with what you like_ is entirely unhelpful. He can just imagine showing up on Hannibal Lecter’s doorstep, fingers hooked through the cardboard handle of a box of wine. It should make him laugh, but instead he finds himself frowning. 

Something niggles in his mind, and it has nothing to do with his choice of wine.

“Help you find something?” The shopkeeper asks.

“I need a gift for a dinner party,” Will says. He examines the nearest label, as if doing so will reveal to him some profound truth about Hannibal.

“Without knowing the menu, it’s difficult to say--but you can get them something they’re sure to enjoy later. Red or white?”

Will doesn’t know what makes him say, automatic and decisive, “Red.”


	8. Fromage

His finger hovers indecisively over his phone screen, dragging back and forth between _A_ and _H_. 

The first, automatic response was to call Hannibal, but Will has demanded so much of the good doctor’s time as of late. Yet he has no doubt Hannibal would come right now, if Will called. Drop everything, cancel other patients, and search out the wounded creature with him. 

But what insight might he have, what connections might he draw? The mere suggestion of such revelations makes Will shudder and drag his hand over his face. 

He flicks up to the _A_ s and presses _send_.

*

It’s a lie that feels honest in the moment it’s spoken, but instantly after Will knows better. Jack and Beverly haven’t even left before the room melts away. Slick, dark coils like a lover’s caress through his hair, sinking inside. The killer’s mind inhabiting his own.

It’s always come far too easily, but now there’s an illicit thrill of delight. _That_ is frankly more disquieting than anything he’s experienced in the darkest corners of the human mind, because it comes from within. 

The truth isn’t that it’s any easier to achieve that mindset. Truth is, it’s become difficult to withdraw.

*

Their conversations are composed of layer upon layer of meaning and innuendo. Will parts with his secrets like a man trailing blood on the battlefield, and conducts their sessions in much the same fashion. Trading words like blows, ducking under the blade of Hannibal’s questions; parrying with his own.

As keen an edge as Will’s mind possesses, it has yet to strike upon the truth. At times Hannibal catches the glint of light upon it, as in this moment, when it seems as though Will speaks directly to the thing lurking beneath Hannibal’s skin, and he hesitates. 

_Could he know?_

*

Franklyn is freaking out. He vacillated a while on the terminology. It sounded crass at first, but now he’s embraced it for what it represents. A sort of camaraderie with the only others who could appreciate just what it is he’s going through.

Franklyn’s afraid of plenty of things, but never individual _people_. At least until now. He checks the locks on his windows and doors, double checks the alarm, then laughs nervously at himself. He thinks of telling Tobias, so they could laugh over it together, and the sound dies, strangled in his throat.

He triple checks the alarm.

*

For all of that, Franklyn is unprepared the moment when the truth is laid out in front of him. The fear is still there, threatening to reduce him to a blubbering mess, but he reins it in. 

_This_ is the opportunity he’s been waiting for his entire life. He _knows_ he can help Tobias. Franklyn’s never been the most important person in someone’s life until now; his veins sing with the sensation that gives him. 

More than power, it’s _importance_. Doctor Lecter can finally see what he’s capable of. The ability to change someone for the better, in his hands.


	9. Trou Normand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could seriously write a drabble for every scene, from everyone's point of view for this fucking masterpiece of an episode, but I reined myself in with masterful control...

“You now,” Price says, mouth full of pork rinds, while Will does his thing. “It doesn’t make sense for heads to be the corners. Maybe the elbows?”

Zeller frowns at the totem. “How d’you figure?”

“You can, you know--” Price gestures with his hands, indicative of what, it’s hard to say. “They’re bendy.” Zeller takes the opportunity to snag a handful of curls from Price’s bag.

Jack’s expression is barely disguised disgust. Beverly groans and hangs her head. “I can’t believe you two can stand _here_ eating _those_.”

Price and Zeller give her twin looks of bewilderment, and munch on.

*

Before when he’s profiled crime scenes, Will could see himself in his mind’s eye, going through the motions, performing every step in their choreographed dance, watching everything play out just so.

This time is different.

The beach is the perfect blank slate of a stage, washed clean by the tide; the props arranged for his use. Will can see their killer’s motivations, as if the man were moving alongside him.

But it’s Will who hefts the pieces into place, who looks on his work with grim satisfaction. Will who delights in the last echoing beats of his victim’s dying heart...

*

_What if you lose time and hurt yourself? Or someone else?_

Hannibal’s words settle uneasily like an accusation. Once he speaks them, a floodgate opens in Will’s mind, of all the possibilities. Things he fantasizes all too readily. Things that are more like memories than imaginings.

A warm body held against his own, struggling vainly for freedom. The hilt of a blade digging into his palm from the force of his grip. Hot, arterial blood arching out before him.

Laying her down on the leaves, shushing her gently with blood soaked fingers at her lips saying, “You can rest now.”

*  
To say there’s a clear plan would be an overstatement. At first, perhaps, before Hannibal realised the full scope of Will’s potential. Now it’s better to sketch out the overarching design of Will’s becoming and fill in the details as they come into focus.

Hannibal wasn’t _planning_ on engaging in light therapy at this stage, but when Will lands on Hannibal’s doorstep in a dissociative fugue, should he resist the opportunity?

Will allows Hannibal to guide him, impressionable as a newborn duckling eager to imprint on the first friendly face. Hannibal guides Will’s eyes to his own, and smiles disarmingly.

*

never sleeping lingering in that halfway place between wakefulness and rest sometimes she can pretend she’s home in her own bed until nightmares make her heart race adrenaline keeps her awake long past the initial fear

she thinks _funny i’m the one having nightmares when i’m the thing everyone’s afraid of_ but it doesn’t make her laugh settles sick in her belly til she’s sick bent over the toilet but never enough she can never get rid of it all

head against cool porcelain soothing like her mother’s hand when’s it over she’s so tired she just wants to rest

*

fear spikes shaky cold through her hands up her arms the same way it felt when her father was angry 

other kids worry about being grounded or maybe hit but she was terrified _maybe this was going to be the thing that made him stop loving her_ then what would keep her from becoming one of those girls

crawford’s almost worse if anything is worse than death at her father’s hands the thought of being locked away in prison or even more horrifying an asylum for the rest of her life a footnote in the story of her father’s madness

*

Will feels Well’s arrogance, his absolute glee over how things played out. Yet as with the beach, when Will acts, it’s not under Well’s influence. The motions may line up, perfectly in-sync, but he knows on a fundamental level that the words coming from his mouth, rubbing salt in the wound, don’t belong to Wells.

It’s grasping-- _flailing_ \--for solid ground, for any safe mirror and finding none. It’s what he’s avoided for so long he doesn’t know how to cope. It’s knowing that every word that falls from his lips, that strikes like a finely-honed dagger and just as deadly, is his own. 

There are lies he tells others out of sick desperation, and the ones he’s told himself so long that he almost believed them, repeating like a mantra in his head. Except it’s all falling away now, and he’s left with the truth. 

Not only his truth, but Abigail’s, and Hannibal’s.

How long was it right in front of him and he refused to see? And how long can he fool himself that he’s going to take any other path than that which lays before him, as if preordained, when he’s on Hannibal’s doorstep instead of Jack’s?


End file.
